Challenge responses
by Icabu
Summary: Responses to several of GingerS's, and others, challenge prompts.
1. Chapter 1

Rules of the Game (Of Life and Chess)

Staring at the pieces didn't help at all. Slowly, Johnny placed his fingers on a piece, moved it three spaces. Just as he was about to let go, Chet's mustache twitched. It was one of those 'I've got you now' twitches that Johnny'd come to recognize quickly. He pulled the piece back to its original spot and continued staring at the board.

"Oh, come on, Gage," Chet whined. "You gotta make a move some time." He gestured toward the chess board. "Just get it over with."

Johnny looked up at his adversary and saw the twitch again. No way was he going to 'just get it over with' – he'd find a way to win.

Or stall long enough for the tones to go off.

Chet leaned over the board, eyes narrowed. "There's no way you can win now." He sat back in his chair. "Not with that bone-head move you made before." He began tapping his fingers on the table.

The local master of the game entered the room, poured himself a cup of coffee. "Who's winning?" Mike queried, walking up to the table.

"I am, of course," gloated Chet. "And no sympathy pointers for the slow one here. Come on, Gage."

"Okay, okay." Johnny waved Chet back and placed his fingers on a different piece.

Mike coughed.

Johnny pulled his hand back as if the chess piece had burned his fingers.

"That's cheating!" Chet bellowed. "No prompting from the gallery."

"Sorry." Mike kept his face neutral. "Coffee's a little strong this afternoon."

"What are you so nervous about anyway, Chet?" asked Marco. "You already guaranteed that you'd win."

"Oh?" Johnny's eyebrow climbed as he switched his stare from the chess board to Chet.

"Well, everyone beats Gage at chess," stammered Chet. "I'm pretty sure I can too."

"Life comes with no guarantees, no time outs, no second chances," Roy quoted. "I think that goes for chess too."

"Ha, ha, Roy," Chet grumbled. "Real profound." He turned back to the board. "You gonna make a move today, Gage?" Looking up at Roy, he added, "then I'll show you a guarantee."

The tones blared. "Squad 51. Man down. 9307 South Briar Place. 9-3-0-7 South Briar Place. Cross: Jade Tree Trail. Time out: 1422."

Johnny and Roy left in a flash.

"Now that's a guarantee," Marco said.

Mike slid into Johnny's vacated seat. "And here's the second chance."

"That's not fair," whined Chet.

"If you're called out, anyone can sub in," quoted Mike. "That's the rule."

"But…" Chet slumped in his chair. "I was winning."


	2. Chapter 2

The Only Way

"Questions, Gentlemen?"

Captain Hank Stanley glanced at each of the other three station captains and found all of them looking back at him – including Chief Howard. He swallowed impulsively.

"This is pretty scary in my book," Captain Ben Lee of 60's said. "For the man going in, if the tree slips at all…"

Hank glanced over the Chief's shoulder at the large oak tree that lay partially inside the cafeteria of the elementary school. They had it tied off at a dozen points already, but the crumbling wall of the building had the tree sinking deeper inside where the last victim, a second grade girl, was trapped.

"We all know the risks," Chief Howard said. "Like the saying goes, 'Life comes with no guarantees, no time outs, no second chances.' Let's get this done."

Hank joined his group of four men. Roy DeSoto was the missing man, having accompanied the last ambulance of dazed and injured school children – including his own tearful second grade daughter and her possibly broken arm.

The faces before Hank bolstered his resolve. He saw fear there. Not the paralyzing scared fear, but the heart squeezing fear of letting the girl down. All he'd have to do is give the word and each of them would be in there in a second, and that was also plainly on their faces. But, this called for only one to go in. And come out. Fast.

"Gage," he called out his remaining paramedic.

"I'm ready, Cap," the young man replied.

"In and out, Pal. In and out." Hank watched with the rest of his crew as John Gage ran into the crumbling building without the slightest hesitation.

Hank's internal clock started ticking. And ticking. And ticking. A slight breeze blew, chilling against the sheen of cold sweat coating his face. The tree groaned and more bricks fell. Hank's heart hammered in his chest. His crew all took a step closer to the building, but Hank raised his arm to hold them. His clock still ticked.

Movement at the doorway caught Hank's attention. He moved forward, his crew at his heels.

Stepping over a new pile of bricks and weaving around lowered branches, Gage exited the building. A young girl's arms circled his neck and his own arms hugged her protectively against his chest. She wore his helmet.

His crew rushed past and escorted Gage and the girl to the squad for treatment. The other firefighters lined their path. All had smiles.

The breeze picked up again. This time it felt warm to Hank. The groaning tree let out a shriek. Several of the strained lines popped and, with a roar, the wall collapsed under the massive tree and it crashed fully into the building.

Hank took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, calmingly. He wasn't sure who said that quote the Chief used earlier, but that person apparently never worked at 51's. They did whatever it took, they never complained, they got it right the first time. They just didn't know any other way.


	3. Chapter 3

What Are the Odds…

"Whaddya think? Johnny asked, not taking his attention from the leggy blonde at the bar.

"I think…" Tony Freeman took a draw from his beer. "That you'll be grinning for a week if you get a date with her."

"Think she's the type that'd date a fireman?" Skepticism crept into Johnny's voice.

"Half the guys in here are with the department," declared Tony. "Besides, you're a Rescue Man now." He drained his glass. "And that ain't no ordinary fireman."

"Yeah." A broad, crooked grin spread across Johnny's face. "Gage, the Rescue Man. Who could resist that?"

Tony started to rise, a bit unsteadily. "I need another beer."

"No!" Johnny leaned over the table and shoved Tony back into his seat. "I'll get it."

Off balanced, Tony plopped into his chair. "You're buying?"

"Yeah, just sit down. I'll get it." Johnny smoothed his hair, using his fingers for a comb. He looked down at his attire and frowned. Not exactly dating duds, but he wasn't expecting a beauty like her to show up in a dive like this. Tucking his white t-shirt into his faded jeans and adjusting his brown flannel shirt, sleeves neatly rolled above his elbow, was the best he could do.

"Go get her, Tiger," Tony prompted as Johnny just stood there adjusting his shirt. "You look fine already. I need a beer, remember?"

Johnny glared at his new partner. "I'm going, I'm going." He took a deep breath and sat back down at the table.

"What are you doing?" demanded Tony.

"What if she's waiting for someone else?" Johnny quickly peeked back at the bar, where the gorgeous girl sat on a stool chatting with another girl. "What if she's not looking for a date? What if she doesn't dig me, ya know?"

"Geez, Gage." Tony smacked his hand on the table. "A girl like that doesn't come in a place like this often." He glanced around the room conspiratorially. "I think every single guy in here has their eyes on her, so you'd better get up there and ask her out."

Johnny looked around, too. "Man, I think you're right. Everyone is looking at her." He stole another glance at Miss Sunshine. "I dunno…if she says no…"

"Look, Gage." Tony leaned across the table. "Life comes with no guarantees, no time outs, no second chances – ya know."

Johnny stared at Tony. "What?"

"Get up there, Gage, or you'll be wondering forever what you're missing." He nudged his young partner. "Ain't getting second chances with this girl."

Johnny sensed a kind of electric anticipation in the room, as if all the available males, and maybe some not-so-available ones, were chomping at the bit to get his girl. "Okay, I'm going." He stood, smoothed his t-shirt. "I'm going…"

After a short, hesitant step, Johnny strode up to the bar.

Tony found he couldn't look away – kind of like rubbernecking at a car accident. They were talking, that was a good sign. "Gage, what are you doing?" he whispered, watching his young rescue partner gesturing as if he were playing charades. But, she was giggling. "What the heck?" Gage was helping her on with her jacket – they were leaving together!

Tony leaned back in his chair. "That's incredible," he said aloud. He looked out the window and saw Johnny assisting the young lady into that ugly white truck of his and they drove away.

"Man!" Tony banged his fist on the table. He didn't get his beer – and he'd ridden to the bar with Johnny.


	4. Chapter 4

**Everyone Back Home**

Icabu

Captain Hank Stanley paced the floor of Station 51's vehicle bay. He'd sent the engine crew home twenty minutes ago. Captain Branch of C-shift sat in the office conducting the station's morning business – just as Hank had twenty-four hours earlier.

George Branch exited the office, reading the papers in his hand, and nearly collided with Hank. He stopped short, brows furrowing. "You're still here, Hank."

Hank shrugged. He hadn't even changed out of his uniform. "Of course." He looked expectantly at the papers George held. "Any word on the squad?"

George sighed, "Nope, just some reg updates." He tapped Hank's shoulder. "I'm sure they're fine. It'll take them a while to get back here from that site."

Hank nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Yeah."

Having his paramedic crew sent out on an extended run so near shift change ate at Hank. Everyone was already bone tired from a hard shift – working extra always increased the chances of an accident happening. And not being at the scene made coping even more difficult.

Hank heard George call the C-shift crew together in the dayroom and begin going over the reg updates. Half-listening to George, half to the chatter on the station's radio speaker, Hank paced to the front of the bay and glanced absently at the busy weekday traffic rumbling by on the other side of the door. Somewhere out there, in a generally southern direction, his two paramedics, along with engines 16, 85 and Squad 16, were working a commercial building collapse. Engine 51 was just finishing up a small brush fire when the call came in at 0617. Dispatch did not redirect his engine crew to the collapse once they cleared from the brush fire. Hank glanced back at the clock on the wall – 0944.

Charlie Dwyer brought Hank a cup of coffee, joining the distracted captain at the bay door. "Don't they always say 'no news is good news'?"

Hank accepted the coffee and managed a smile. "Maybe so, but I think I rather have an update."

Dwyer turned, looking out the bay door window. "I know what you mean," he agreed.

The phone rang in the office, freezing Hank. George answered, then called out, "Hank."

Hank jogged to the office, setting his coffee cup on the desk and accepted the phone handset from George.

"Chief McConnike," George whispered.

Hank swallowed a lump in his throat, willing the coffee to stay in his churning stomach.

"Chief," Hank said into the mouthpiece, then listened intently.

"Hank," McConnike said with an upbeat tone. "Your paramedics at the Bachmann building collapse…"

Hank sank into a chair by the desk.

"…they did a great job."

Air rushed out of Hank's lungs.

"Although seven Bachmann workers were killed, our guys got every person out of that building."

Hank's head hung at the loss of life.

"Everyone did an outstanding job, Hank," McConnike extolled. "It was tough going, quite a mess in there. Twenty-two of the surviving sixty-two workers were sent to hospitals in the area. Quite a morning's work, tacked onto a full shift."

Hank nodded, eyes closed in relief. Before he found his voice, McConnike continued.

"Your men are at Rampart, Hank." McConnike's voice switched to a more serious timbre. "Doc Brackett doesn't want them driving. They are beyond exhausted."

Hank stood. The news was so much better than what he'd begun imagining, especially with a call from the battalion chief. He released a quiet sigh of relief. "I'll make sure they get home, Chief."

"I figured you would. Good crew, Hank. Excellent work today." Hank could hear McConnike's smile through the phone, causing one to appear on Hank's own tired face.

"Yes, sir," Hank responded proudly, then handing the handset back to George after McConnike's good-bye.

Hank's smile broadened. "They're fine. Exhausted, but fine. I just need to take them home from Rampart."

George stood also. "Great news." He exited the office with Hank. "You can take Dwyer with you to get the squad."

Hank nodded, "Good idea."

Hank's beaming face was enough for Charlie Dwyer to clap his hands and pronounce, "Good news, I see."

"Yeah, Chief McConnike called," Hank informed the news-hungry C-shift crew. "Roy and John worked the collapse until they collapsed themselves, apparently. I have to run over to Rampart and take them home – doc's orders. Won't even let them drive the squad back here."

"Dwyer," George said, "accompany Captain Stanley and bring the squad back."

"Yessir," Charlie answered.

Hank sighed, a ton of weight off his shoulders. He patted George on the back, "Everyone back home makes the end of any shift good."

George smiled. "I remember that quote from command school, Chief Dowdy's class. Didn't take long to realize how true it is."

"You all be careful out there," Hank said to everyone as he and Dwyer exited to the back parking lot.

Both men stopped as they opened the doors of Hank's car. The station tones, muted, but unmistakable, drew their attention to the brick building. They watched and listened as Engine 51 exited and turned left, roaring down the road to someone's aid.

#########

Hank and Dwyer squeezed their way into the crowded Emergency Room waiting area at Rampart. In the center of the hubbub were Roy and John. Their appearance brought back a lot of Hank's earlier nervousness. Roy's white t-shirt was anything except white and partially untucked from his equally smudged bunker pants. John had a glowing white bandage on his forehead and still had his blue jacket on, with a jagged tear in the sleeve. McConnike's reported 'good job' looked like it had taken more than just energy from his paramedics.

Dwyer nudged Hank. "Isn't that the Mayor of Carson there?" He pointed to a short, balding gentleman in a rumpled suit standing in front of Roy and John.

"Uh," Hank replied hesitantly. He wouldn't have known the Mayor of Carson if the man stepped on his toes. "Could be, I guess."

A local newspaper cameraman's flash bulb fired off in Roy's and John's faces, the brightness having a ghostly effect on their already pale visages. Hank saw his two paramedics attempting to escape the unwanted attention. Roy had a noticeable limp and John an unnatural slump.

Hank and Dwyer waded into the crowd, each grabbing and supporting a paramedic and firmly excusing themselves from the group. They were backed up by Head Nurse Dixie McCall and Department Head Dr. Brackett.

Their escape across the parking lot was slow, but the hospital staff kept the media and political hounds at bay as the firemen finally reached Hank's car. Leaning against the car, the injured paramedics attempted to catch their breath. Hank frowned at the pale, pinched look on John's sweating face. Roy also sported a glistening coat of sweat, just from the trip across the parking lot.

"You guys look awful," Dwyer announced the obvious. He received cutting glares from the A-shift paramedics and their captain.

"Help me get them in the car, ya twit," Hank retorted.

John opened the back door and slid in behind the driver's seat. Hank thought he heard a groan as the lanky paramedic leaned back in the seat, eyes closed.

Dwyer loaned Roy his shoulder to use as a crutch and they hobbled around the sedan. Opening the front passenger door, Charlie helped Roy get his feet in and closed the door.

"Call if you guys need anything," Charlie said into Roy's open window as Hank backed out and drove away.

#########

Checking John in the rearview mirror, Hank thought he looked totally out of it with John's head lolling with each turn of the car. Looking to his right, Hank saw Roy's head bob as he fought sleep. Both of his paramedics had definitely seen better days.

Hank cleared his throat, smiling when Roy looked over. "So, Roy, what's the toll here? You two are looking kinda rough." Hank made a quick mirror peek to the back seat, making sure John hadn't slid to the floorboard.

Roy shifted in his seat, gingerly. "Oh, just bumps and bruises, mainly, Cap." Roy poked his thumb toward the back seat. "Seven stitches in his head."

"Eight," John mumbled. "But who's counting?"

"And Brackett didn't keep you two?" Hank asked, surprised John was awake.

"Oh, he threatened to," John answered, his voice stronger. "But we convinced him recovering at home would be better."

"You both going to be ready for next shift?" inquired Hank.

The "Yeah" response was in stereo.

"It'll take all four days, I'm sure," Roy continued, looking back at Johnny. "But, Cap, it was worth it."

Hank glanced over at Roy and the haunted look that stared back sent a shiver through him.

"Anything else you two want to tell me?" Hank offered.

The quiet that followed told Hank that the feelings were too raw yet. He was sure, in time, pieces of the story would come out. Although curious, Hank let it go.

#########

Johnny reached out and allowed Cap to pull him from the back seat of the car. As he rose, the world tilted and his vision blurred briefly, but a few blinks brought nearly everything back in focus. Attempting to pull his arm from Cap's firm grip met sturdy resistance.

"I'm okay, Cap," Johnny assured, but it fell on deaf ears.

"Sorry, Pal, but a higher authority than both of us told me to make sure you two got home," Hank informed, his grip loosening slightly.

With a resigned sigh and a strong desire to collapse in his bed, Johnny pulled Hank to the stairs leading to his second story apartment. Upon reaching the mid-point landing, Johnny was definitely wishing he had taken a first floor apartment. Reluctantly, he had to rely more and more on Hank's assistance as they climbed the remaining steps.

Just three steps from reaching the second floor walkway, a blinding wave of dizziness washed over Johnny. Guessing where to put his foot on the fuzzy and skewed stair tread nearly resulted in a tumble, but Hank's grip tightened and he wedged Johnny against the railing.

"John…" called Hank.

"S'okay, Cap," Johnny attempted to reassure. "Just don't remember there being so many of these damn steps." He leaned against the railing, collecting himself.

"Get a ground floor apartment next time, okay?" Hank offered.

"I was just thinking the same thing," admitted Johnny.

Johnny gripped the rail tighter as a pair of giggling and chatting ladies turned the corner, headed for the stairs.

"Johnny!" the pair screeched together. "You're hurt!" They dropped their laundry baskets and ran to Johnny's side.

"I'm okay, really. Just a scratch," Johnny said, holding the pair at arm's length. Looking sheepishly at Hank, he introduced the pair. "Cap, Mindy and Cindy…or Cindy and Mindy – I can never tell which is which. They're twins."

"I can see that," Hank replied. "Ladies," he extended his hand to each. "Hank Stanley."

"Oh, wow," Cindy/Mindy said.

"Aren't you Johnny's boss," Mindy/Cindy added.

"Yeah, he is," Johnny cut in. "He just gave me a ride home."

"Oh, Johnny, we'll take care of you," Cindy/Mindy gushed.

"Real good care," added Mindy/Cindy.

"I bet," Hank mumbled.

The ladies encircled Johnny, pulling him up the final few steps and shuffling him down the walkway.

"Thanks, Cap," Johnny called as he was ushered into his apartment, a grin on his face.

"Try to get some rest, John," Hank cautioned, shaking his head.

#########

"Sometimes I really worry about John," Hank told Roy as he drove toward the DeSoto home.

Roy stifled a laugh. "Looked to me that he was in pretty good hands back there."

"I just hope he gets some rest," Hank continued. "I'm surprised Brackett let him go home. I know he has a hard head, but…"

"It was a glancing blow," countered Roy.

Hank snorted. "Is that what he told Brackett?"

"No, that's what happened," Roy explained. "He didn't lose consciousness…he didn't drop the body."

The car swerved slightly as Hank looked over at Roy.

"A beam, or something from above us, fell, brushed my hip and leg…and glanced off Johnny's head." Roy's voice was low as he related the event. "Johnny was on a rope bringing up the final victim, right from the hole where the original steam blast occurred."

Hank stopped at a red light. "Didn't make it, huh?"

Roy sighed and continued. "No, he was probably the first one killed, but it didn't matter. We were getting him out of there."

Accelerating at the green light, Hank turned onto Roy's quiet street. "I understand that." He pulled up to the curb. "You guys need anything, anything at all, just give me a call."

Roy smiled. "Thanks, Cap." He opened the door and levered himself out of the car. Leaning against the closed door, he spoke through the open window, trying to reassure Hank. "Don't worry about Johnny. He's got plenty of help…Gage style." He looked over his shoulder at his home. "And I have mine."

Hank nodded. "I see what you mean."

"Go home, Cap. We'll be okay." Roy straightened. "See you guys in four days."

#########

After convincing his captain that he could make it to his door from the curb, Roy watched Hank's car turn the corner. The first step let him know that riding in the car had stiffened his sore hip and leg. He felt like an old man, very old. The normally short walk seemed like a marathon.

With great effort and a sliding gait he wearily made his way up the walk to the door where he leaned heavily against the front of the house, planting both hands on the screen door to steady himself. He smiled as the front door pulled open and Joanne stood in the doorway. Shuffling aside, he opened the screen door and stepped into her warm embrace.

#########

Hank pulled into his carport, shut off the engine, and just sat for a few minutes. Leaving the car, he entered his home. Beverly, his wife, shut off the vacuum, greeting him in the kitchen.

"Everyone okay?" she asked, her hand brushing his cheek.

"We're all home now," he responded, catching and holding her hand. "A little bruised and battered, but home and healing."

She gave his hand a light squeeze. "It's good to hear no one had to stay at Rampart."

Hank nodded agreement. "Not this time."

Releasing his hand, she opened the fridge. "You must be starved. Let me fix you some lunch, then you can relax. Ham or turkey?"

"Thanks, Hon," Hank's stomach grumbled at the promise of food. "Ham, please."

Walking into the den, Hank dialed Chief McConnike's number from memory.

"McConnike," came from the ear piece.

"Hank Stanley, Chief."

"Hank, how is everything?"

"Mission accomplished, Chief. Everyone's home now," Hank reported.

"Good. Good to hear that, Hank."

After finishing with Chief McConnike, Hank called each of the engine crew. They had all gathered some information on Roy and John's incident from various contacts within the department and Hank filled them in on what he had learned. They all promised to look in on their crewmates after a couple days of recovery time.

Ending his calls with a smile, Hank realized that Mike, Marco, and Chet had answered their phones by the second ring. Everyone was home; this long shift had a good ending.


	5. Chapter 5

Justified

(Response to GingerS's 'Freeze-frame' challenge prompt)

Icabu

Seeing the four of them sitting together, whole and complete, brought the familiar crooked grin to his face. He'd always thought that Roy had the perfect life – rewarding and fulfilling career, loving wife, enrichment of children. And now he felt complete having kept that perfect picture intact.

Sure, there was sadness on those four faces now. But Roy and Joanne will grow old together, their family swelling with grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Some hardships, certainly, but they would have each other to get through it all.

He felt himself lifting, drifting away. There was a tug on his heart as his view began to dim, but he still felt strong about his decision. There had been no other way. That moment burned into his being as a freeze-frame in time. He would do it over again the exact same way – a thousand times, if necessary.

As a distant echo, he heard those infamous words. He kept his fading vision on the prize, though. The family was together. He counted them again, just to be sure – one, two, three, and four. A matched set – two parents and two kids. Perfect.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the echoing voice said. "We are gathered here today to pay homage to the ultimate sacrifice…"

The voice shifted to a buzz as he drifted. It was time for him to go, his job complete. His grin faded as he noticed an empty chair beside Jennifer, Roy's young daughter. She placed her hand on the empty seat and looked right at him, through him. He shivered. But the young eyes warmed him.

And he was freed, soaring; that warmth a comforting cloak on his journey.


	6. Chapter 6

**Siren in Red**

(Response to clride's challenge prompt '**_I can think of no more stirring symbol of man's humanity to man than a fire engine.' - Kurt__ Vonnegut_**_)_

Icabu

Fire engine red – the color of his own blood, he was sure. Sipping his morning coffee, Captain John Gage couldn't take his eyes off Engine 68. Highly polished, with chrome gleaming and glass sparkling, the engine called like a siren on the ocean. As with most sailors, his seduction was complete – heart and soul.

Squad 68 sat beside the engine in the tight bay. The paramedics had just returned from a string of runs and this new beefy rescue truck had dust and mud spackling its sides. The work horses of the department, he thought, fondly remembering those rushed and harried days in Squad 51.

He'd booted at 68's a lifetime, or two, ago. Being assigned to Engine 68 then was like having his favorite toy come alive. The squads certainly had more runs, more flash, but these big rigs were the stanchions of the department. They were sirens in red that sang dreams of daring to young boys and drew young men to those deeds of daring.

Since then, the hulking Ward engine had replaced the gracious Crown Firecoach that had mesmerized him as a green boot. There was something different about your first truck assignment. Johnny smiled. It was a lot like a first girlfriend. That heady rush that let you know this was something very special. He had that again, bad.

And now he was back at 68's – this time in command of C-shift. The first six months of his captaincy was in the 'suitcase' role. He'd covered shifts at seven different stations waiting for Captain Murdock to retire from 68's. Johnny felt comfortable here, like coming home.

He slowly walked around the engine; admiring the lines and angles of the Ward. It took him back to when Station 51 had received their new Ward engine. It was like Christmas morning. He'd arrived last, as usual, and everyone was out back crawling all over the brand new engine. The Ward was now the fleet standard, a proven warrior.

He opened the passenger side door with a satisfying click and took a moment to stare at the shotgun seat –his seat now. He remembered Hank Stanley sitting in Engine 51's copilot seat. The man had radiated authority, he'd always thought. Hoping to live up to his mentor, he stepped up on the running board and slipped into the seat.

Johnny squared his shoulders. The seat was comfortable, felt natural. The yoke of responsibility was a weight that he'd have to grow used to. He knew that he was to blame for much of Hank Stanley's gray hair. And Chet. Roy, Mike and Marco not so much. Memories brought his smile back. It faded as he wondered how long before his graying began.

Stepping down, he completed his circuit. Stopping in front of the control panel, he couldn't help staring at it in wonder. As a captain, he could run the engine in a pinch, but its complexities were still a mystery. He held those that ran the pumps as second nature in very high regard.

"Morning, Capt'n."

Johnny whirled around, sloshing lukewarm coffee on his hand. "Ah, good morning, Joey." As usual, the C-shift engineer was the first of the crew in – after the captain, of course.

"Pass inspection, Capt'n?" Joey nodded toward the engine.

Johnny smiled. He'd been caught. "Of course."

"Good to have you here permanent now." Engineer Joey Butler walked over and rubbed at an imagined flaw in the shine of a rear handrail.

"It's good to be back here." Johnny noted that not much had changed in the bay area over the years, except for the newer trucks.

"Back?" Joey hitched a foot up on the tailboard.

"I was a boot here. When the Crown was here." Suddenly, Johnny felt old.

Joey nodded. "I've crewed on the Crowns. Classy trucks. Only run the Wards, though."

"They – the Crowns – were, are, the storybook picture of fire engines." Maybe because the Crown was his first assignment, but Johnny still pictured them any time he thought of fire engines.

"I read a book in high school," Joey began. "A pretty kooky story, but one character, Space Wanderer, rode around in a bright red pumper."

Johnny's brow wrinkled. "A space guy in a pumper?"

Joey laughed. "I told you it was kooky. But the author did have a line that stuck with me. He wrote: '_I can think of no more stirring symbol of man's humanity to man than a fire engine.'_ Since my dad and uncle were firemen, well, it just stuck with me. I pictured him zipping around in an open cab Crown."

Shaking his head at his young engineer, Johnny laughed. "I have to agree with that statement, but outer space in an open cab is a bit much."

"Hey, it was high school." Joey shrugged. "I got an 'A' on the book report."

#########

The C-shift crew was still doing morning chores when Station 68 was toned out to a structure fire. Johnny acknowledged the call, handed the slip to the squad crew and jogged across the bay to Engine 68. He straightened his jacket as Joey pulled the rig out behind the squad, turning right. Out his window, Johnny saw a young boy on the sidewalk stop his bicycle and watch the engine as it passed, mouth agape in awe. Johnny waved and the boy grinned. Joey blasted the horn and the boy pumped his fists in the air. The siren in red calling the next generation of firemen, Johnny thought.

The pillar of black smoke in the distance pulled Johnny's thoughts to the task ahead. He listened intently to the radio as the Ward wove through the morning traffic. The weight of his new responsibilities settled onto Johnny. It felt good.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer**: Original _Emergency!_ characters are the property of Mark VII. I've borrowed them to breathe life into this story as they did for Mr. Webb's vision. My characters are thrilled to be in their presence.

**Building Tomorrows**

(GingerS quote challenge story: "The darkest night is often the bridge to the brightest tomorrow." – Jonathan Lockwood Huie)

Icabu

Lt. Dixie McCall checked the calendar tacked to her dorm room door. "Damn." Her finger sat on the current day – 5 July 1953. She would be leaving 10th Station Hospital for a lovely three day stay in hell. Not that the collection of temporary buildings surrounding the old brick school building, now their main hospital building, in Chuncheon, Korea was any kind of haven. The notes on the next three calendar blocks read: 'McCall – Aid Station Duty'.

She would be relieving her roommate and friend, Sally. Lt. Sally Martin. Dixie had joined the 10th Station Hospital from the hosting 4th Field Hospital, HQ'd in Pusan, nearly a year ago. Sally was here to greet her and they'd been friends since. The our-lives-depend-on-each-other kind of friends that war necessitates. Otherwise, Dixie knew she'd never have met the breezy Sally Martin from Wichita, Kansas. She needed to have Sally here. Sally made the stark terror and heavy despair of the place and times bearable. Just as she provided the rock to anchor Sally – to keep her from floating away on the sea of emotions generated here.

Dixie readied herself for morning rounds. She was then scheduled for four hours of surgical assistance. Then she would be driven to Aid Station 8. She pulled her travel bag out from under her cot and bounced it on top of the thin, lumpy mattress. Quickly, she jotted a note for Sally and tucked it under her roommate's pillow. It was a ritual – a few kind words to help with the unwinding process after returning from aid station duty. They'd done that about a dozen times already.

#########

"Sorry, ma'am," the young corporal said for the umpteenth time as the M-35 truck, affectionately known as the deuce-and-a-half, bounced around the rutted trail passing for a road.

Dixie just smiled at the young man and clung to various hand-holds in the cab. Normally, she'd be in a jeep, but was catching a ride with a squad from the 7th Infantry Division returning to the bloody Hill 255, Pork Chop Hill. The 7th was based at Fort Ord in California. She felt safe and comfortable with the young men from her home state riding with her. She prayed for their safe return to the sunny beaches of Monterey Bay.

Darkness neared as the truck pulled into Aid Station 8's compound. Dixie dropped her bag down and climbed out of the cab. The bouncy trip in the unyielding truck made her twenty-five year old body feel more like ninety-five. She was sure she'd have bruises in places that would be difficult to explain – unless you mentioned a hasty trip in an M-35 to the front lines. Anyone in the Army would understand that.

"Lt. McCall."

Dixie turned to see Lt. Sally Martin crossing the compound toward her. She disappeared from view briefly as the truck roared past, continuing to its destination. Dixie glanced over her shoulder to watch the truck as it disappeared around a turn.

Her friend noticed. "Where're they headed?"

"255."

"Oh, shit." Sally recognized the designation. "There's been rumblings up there. We had five on the tables today."

"We should just give the damn hill back to them. It's wasteland now anyway." Dixie's fear for the soldiers had her voicing her thoughts.

Sally picked up Dixie's bag. "Well, that'd kinda put the Chinese bastards right in our front yard, honey." Arms hooked together, she pulled Dixie toward the sleeping tent that was rarely occupied, except for casualty overflow, and tossed the bag in the corner.

"Yeah, well, I hope we chase them all the way back to Peking, then," Dixie declared. "Or wherever they came from."

Sally laughed; a genuine laugh. Dixie thought it seemed out of place surrounded by the devastated landscape and the dreary tents of the aid station. But, that was Sally. She could find a moment in hardest times to shine a ray of sunlight, a reminder that they were still human. It had a price, Dixie knew. She'd soothed Sally through a handful of sob-fests when the weight became too much to bear. It was what they did to get through it all.

"Where is everyone?" Dixie noted the empty tables and cots.

"Got everyone evac'd this afternoon," Sally reported.

"Wow," Dixie said. "Light time?"

"Pretty much," beamed Sally. "Counting the five from this morning, I'd say we've only had around a dozen the whole three days."

"Think, maybe, the rumors of a truce are real?" Dixie crossed her fingers as she said it, against jinxing the hope by saying it aloud.

Dr. Trenton Wells walked into the triage tent, wiping his hands on a towel that he habitually hung over his shoulder.

"If those rumors are true, get ready." He dropped onto one of the cots, covering his eyes with his left forearm as he eased his head on the pillow. "Both sides will make a rush for landscape if it happens."

Sally dropped onto another cot, resting her elbows on her knees and plopping her chin in her hands. "That would be awful."

In the quiet, the two nurses heard the soft snores of an exhausted Dr. Wells. They tiptoed out of the tent.

The evening began to cool the steamy July heat. Both nurses looked up at the dark hills, in the general direction of the cratered, dusty hill that the outline on the map resembled a pork chop.

Dixie sensed her friend's anxiety. Sally couldn't be still, feet shuffling in the dust. It was too dark to see her expression, but her body seemed tense.

"What is it?" Dixie finally asked.

"Bradley, back at the 4th, called Dr. Wells earlier. Told him to prepare for a push." Sally stomped her feet in frustration. "Soon."

"Oh, my." Dixie's heart sank. "And the fresh troops I rode in with, they kinda support that."

"Yeah."

Dixie heard the tears. She touched Sally's arm, but she jerked away, stomped a couple steps away from Dixie.

"I just want them to stop!"

"They will," Dixie used her best calming voice. "Soon."

"Not soon enough!"

"No, they missed that mark a couple years ago," Dixie stated flatly.

The sudden rush and hug surprised Dixie.

"You silly girl," Sally blubbered into Dixie's hair as she clung to her friend.

"These are silly times." Dixie comforted as Sally washed her troubles away with a good sobbing.

#########

"I really don't like leaving you here when something might be happening." Sally had her bag packed and in the back of the jeep. She'd kept Dixie up most of the night talking, mostly about if a cease fire could actually happen.

"Oh, it may take them days to figure out if or when they might do something," soothed Dixie. "Get on back and enjoy an afternoon at the lake." She gave Sally a soft embrace. "You deserve it."

Sally eased into the passenger seat of the jeep. "You be damn careful, girl." She waved at Dr. Wells as he stood in the entry of the triage tent. "And tell Dr. Soft Eyes to do the same."

"We'll be fine." Dixie made shooing motions to get the driver going. She watched as the jeep disappeared and a chill blew through her even as the sun broke over the barren hills.

A warming wind blew dust across Dixie's feet as she walked back to the triage tent. She smiled at Trent. He did have the softest chocolate eyes. "I'm going to unpack these supplies," she said, motioning to the boxes on the table brought in the jeep Sally departed in.

Dixie packed the supply cabinet with thirty-six surgical kits. Trent Wells had insisted on having a bit of surgical equipment up here. He had taught himself to be a damn good vascular surgeon, in an emergency situation kind of way. Dixie couldn't count the number of limbs and lives that he'd saved just by being able to close a few arteries and veins. So, although the Army designated it as an aid station, Trent had made it a place for a few miracles. They certainly still lost some, but his difference was measurable.

"I radioed for more sulfa, morphine and 3-0 silk," Trent said as he sterile washed one of the tables, again. "I hope it gets here soon."

Turning at the edginess she heard in his voice, Dixie gave him a critical look. "You believe they are up to something."

"It's too damn quiet," he stated. "Yesterday, too." He slammed his wash rag into the bucket, sloshing the liquid on his boots. "Reinforcements yesterday. Rumors of a truce." He picked up the bucket and walked to the entrance. "It's adding up to something." He exited in a hurry.

Dixie heard the water splash on the ground as he emptied the bucket. When Trent didn't return, she stepped outside and found him staring at the distant hills.

"Trent," she called from behind him. She felt bad when he jumped. "All we can do is be ready."

"It could be bad." His head hung and he kicked at the dirt.

"We've had bad before." She closed her eyes to block some of the images that 'bad' evoked. "We'll be okay."

He just continued to look into the distance.

#########

Exhausted, Sally dropped her bag onto her sagging cot. Wistfully, she glanced over at Dixie's neatly made cot before dragging out all the dirty clothes from her bag and tossing them in her laundry corner. "Three days," she whispered. "Let the calm hold for three more days." Then Dixie would be back and they would reign the dorm once again. She saw the slip of notepaper sticking out from under her pillow and smiled. She needed to get a shower first, though. The dust from the open jeep ride covered nearly every inch of her.

Refreshed from her shower, Sally settled on her cot and pulled the paper out from under her pillow. She immediately recognized Dixie's loopy feminine writing.

**_Instructions for a Sally-Good Time:_**

**_Get picnic basket from under the foot of my cot_**

**_Go to Lake Soyang, by our favorite big tree_**

**_Toast California and Kansas with the red(ish) wine_**

**_(unknown vintner, unknown vintage – but best there is in these parts)_**

**_also toast Navy doctors(!)_**

**_Spread peanut butter on chocolate bar, nibble succulently with remainder of wine_**

Sally laughed out loud. Although she was a few years older than Dixie, she thought of her as an older sister. She set the letter down and reached for the picnic basket under Dixie's cot. She smiled at the Hershey bar and tin of peanut butter – her two favorite decadent splurges. She lifted out the bottle holding about two cups of an amber fluid resembling something between kerosene and cough syrup. She shuddered at the thought of drinking it. But, she would, by the big tree on the shore of Lake Soyang.

The mention of Navy doctors in Dixie's note brought back the wonderful memories of the Independence Day celebration the hospital hosted back on July 1st. A group of Navy doctors were visiting the Hospital and were set to sail for exotic destinations on July 4th, so they'd partied early. A send-off and a patriotic celebration all rolled into one. By dusk, before the celebratory fireworks – not the usual destructive kind famous in these parts, she found herself partnered with a very handsome Navy captain – Billy Saunders. He was a sweetheart. And Dixie had latched onto a gorgeous hunk, Lt. Cole Winston.

Her Billy turned out to be married, and unfortunately for her, happily so. She had coaxed a few sensuous kisses from him that still sent shivers down her spine just thinking about them. But, Dixie…she and Cole went off by themselves to the big tree by the lake. And Sally didn't remember seeing her or him again until around 0300. But, Dixie was being tight lipped about what had, or hadn't, happened. And that was driving Sally crazy. Any time she mention Cole to Dixie, all she got was a one-sided smile from her friend that mimicked the one Cole flashed in Dixie's direction so readily that night.

With a sigh, Sally tucked everything, including the note, into the basket. She dressed in cut-offs, a faded OD green t-shirt and her seasoned Keds. She dug into her shoebox full of greeting cards, selected the one she felt was right for Dixie's return from this aid station trip. Dixie wrote notes on paper, while she wrote in cards. She collected them everywhere she went and had something for virtually any occasion.

Checking out a motor pool jeep, she drove to the lake. The walk to the big tree was peaceful. Birds and a couple of frogs made it feel more like home than a war zone. A helicopter flew overhead, disturbing the peacefulness and briefly bringing the war back into focus. She nestled in with her back resting against the tree. Her now bare feet dangled over the low bank and the water lapped at them, cool and refreshing in the sticky heat. She followed her instructions, toasting their home states and handsome Navy doctors. The 'wine' tasted more like cough syrup than anything, but it definitely had a kick to it. She nibbled her melting, peanut butter covered chocolate in the dappled shade. Her thoughts always returned to her friend up at the aid station.

#########

Dixie wiped the sterilizing solution across table number three with a final flourish. They'd handled a rush of nineteen soldiers, two didn't make it – didn't even make it to the aid station with any chance. She breathed deeply to calm herself. Even losing two hurt. The smells churned her stomach, so she walked outside to clear her head. Looking down the road back toward 10th Station, she wondered if Sally had enjoyed her picnic at the lake. Dixie knew she'd go, it was chocolate after all. Couldn't say much for the wine, but the selection was rather limited.

She turned at the sound of footsteps. It was just Trent and her again. The corpsmen had accompanied the injured on the bus to either a MASH unit or an Evac, depending on the injury. The dead rode in the back of the bus.

"Not much cooler out here," Trent said.

"Not yet," Dixie agreed. She saw the hard glint in his eyes as he worked internally to deal with the horrific injuries he'd just treated. And the ones he couldn't. If it stayed calm a little longer, the softness would return to his eyes. His ready smile would flash again.

They both watched as the setting sun blazed orange, reds and yellows across the sky, deepening to blues and purples at the edges. It could almost be pretty, she thought. But the ugly, scarred hills brought the reality of war back to the picture.

"Treat you to some C-Rats beans and wieners," offered Trent.

Dixie smiled. "What girl could turn that down?"

They stood in the entry of the triage tent shoveling cold beans and wieners down and watching the evening colors fade into blackness.

A sudden shiver shook Dixie as she stared into the approaching night.

"Okay?" Trent had seen her shake.

"Yeah, just a little spooky up here at night." She smiled at him to affirm she was okay and was pleased to see Dr. Soft Eyes had returned.

"Well, I'm going to steal as much nap as I can get and you should, too." Tossing his bean can in the trash, he flopped onto a cot, covering his eyes with an arm.

Dixie settled into another cot, but sleep didn't come immediately.

#########

When at 10th Station, Dixie could hear the distant echoing booms of mortars and bombs only if the wind was right and all else was calm and quiet. It was an eerie sound, like distant thunder. Killing thunder.

At Aid Station 8, the mortars and bombs were so close they knocked her out of her cot, tore her from her brief slumber.

Trent shouted her name over the sudden onslaught of crashing noise. She crawled over to him and took the steel helmet he held out and settled it on her head.

"Here we go," Trent said into the darkness.

They huddled under one of the sturdier tables as round after round of explosions shook the hills around them and their wits.

"This is big," murmured Trent.

"The Push," added Dixie.

"I hate when they're right," he stated and straightened. He grabbed the table as another round of explosions rocked the tent.

"Get down," hissed Dixie.

"Gotta get ready for the rush," he countered. "It's gonna get crazy."

Dixie rose from the floor and went about her preparations. The explosions kept her nerves scrambled as she tucked fallen supplies back in the cabinets.

Then soldiers began arriving – by jeep, truck, whatever means available.

Dixie and Trent slipped into their well-rehearsed dance. The rattling explosions settled into a background annoyance as she hauled litters, inserted IVs, wrapped miles of bandages. Trent worked at her side until a spurting artery on a mangled limb caught his attention and he moved to the surgical table.

The first buses and ambulances roared up the road and Dixie loaded what felt like a company of soldiers on a fleet of vehicles. Every third bus brought them fresh supplies – bandages, IVs, drugs. And it was all returned – attached to bleeding soldiers.

The first lull came shortly after midnight and Dixie was able to assist Trent with surgery. She managed triage solo to give him the time for surgery, to give the worst of these boys a fighting chance. She was worn out after just these few hectic hours, but there was always more to do. The chance to save made it worth any price.

The fire and brimstone returned quickly. If possible, it was heavier than before. Their tent rattled, their nerves frayed and still the explosions roared. More casualties arrived in jeeps with blood smears on the fenders and doors. It pooled in the cargo areas from litters lying across them. The ground darkened with the blood of war.

Dixie no longer saw faces, just bleeding wounds that needed tending. She tied pressure bandages until her arms shook. There were too many IVs to count and countless morphine injections. She loaded buses and ambulances again and again, unloaded endless cartons of supplies.

The sun came up. Dixie still had two more days to go. Mid-morning brought another lull, of sorts. The number of injured dropped down to a trickle instead of the burst dam. She handled the triage quickly and got the bus loaded. She rushed into the tent and caught Trent as his legs sagged. She struggled him onto a cot, lifting his legs up on carton and massaging some feeling back into them. He groaned as the tingle of circulation returned. Her heart ached for him and every soldier that had passed through.

She finished closing a gaping, bleeding wound on the patient, pausing to tie a small bow in the final stitch. That was a clue to Sally that she was still alive and working. If this soldier went to 10th Station, that is.

Later, she jerked awake, not remembering even getting on a cot. Trent was running triage for a new batch of injured. She pulled herself off the cot, stripped off her bloody gown and pulled on a fresh one. She traded a dream nightmare for a living one.

They slogged through the next twenty-four hours, sleeping standing up at times. The night was the worst. Mind games from the Chinese. Not only the noise, but the visibility of the explosions gnawed at their nerves. Nights seemed endless. Lulls only came during daylight now. Trent had heard on the radio that divisions of Chinese communists had swarmed Pork Chop Hill. The nightmare was true and they were right in the middle of it. She couldn't imagine the terror of being up on that hill.

At least 10th Station was thinking about them, Dixie thought as she opened a carton of supplies and found sandwiches and orange juice. They were savored as if it were caviar and champagne.

"They can't send replacements yet, Dixie," Trent told her between bites of this third sandwich.

She closed her eyes and nodded. "It figures. How long do you think this push will last?"

"We didn't start it, so who knows?" He reached for a fourth sandwich. "Maybe when the Chinese run out of soldiers."

Dixie's eyes popped open. "But, there's _millions_ of them."

"Just kidding, sorry," he said around a mouthful of sandwich. "Sorry, bad time for joking around."

"I certainly hope that's a joke." She calmed herself with more effort than she preferred. "The real scary part is that it could be entirely true."

"Don't even think that way, Dixie." He chugged down another glass of juice. "Besides, they'll probably run out of bullets and bombs before they run out of soldiers." He winked then collapsed on a cot.

She punched him in the arm. "That's not funny, you know."

"Yeah, I know. Go to sleep while you can."

"Already there." She stretched out on the nearest cot and closed her eyes, hoping for no dreams at all.

#########

Sally woke to thunderous pounding on the door. "What?" she growled.

"It's Bev. Open up. Please."

Sally glanced at the clock. 0430, ugh. Two and a half hours before she was scheduled for duty. She sat up and reached over to release the lock. "It's open."

Lt. Beverly Kline rushed into the room, her red hair flaring as she turned to take in Dixie's empty bed. "Oh, no!"

"What?" Sally asked again.

Beverly turned towards Sally, tears streaming down her face. "The Chinese have overrun Pork Chop."

Ugly, consuming fear stabbed through Sally. "The aid station," she gasped.

"Massive casualties are coming in." Beverly hooked her thumb towards the window. "We have three more buses coming in now."

"The aid station!" Sally demanded.

"No official word," Beverly said quietly. "But some of the wounded said they had been to Station 8. 'With the pretty nurse,' they added."

Sally managed a slight smile. "Dixie!"

"It must be terrible up there," Beverly cried. "They're bombing them to hell."

Sally gave her a quick hug. "I'll be over there as soon as I can to help with all these casualties. Go."

Beverly wiped at her red-rimmed eyes. "I'll be praying for her, too."

Sally nodded to Beverly and closed the door behind her. Leaning against the door, Sally squeezed her eyes shut. She stomped her foot in fear and frustration. "Damn it, girl." A tear escaped, but she held the rest back. It would not help her friend at all to lose it now, here.

With a flash of inspiration, she reached under her pillow for the card she had picked out for Dixie. She inspected it, concentrated. Yes, this was still the one she wanted. She knocked over the cup holding several pens as she reached in a rush. Jumping on her cot, she paused and collected herself. Then she wrote.

**_Girlfriend –_**

**_Bev just ran in here to tell me that those Chinese bastards have overrun Pork Chop. I'm so scared for you guys!_**

**_I can't image how terrifying it is for you up there in the shadow of that damn hill._**

**_Please, please be safe! And keep Dr. Soft Eyes safe for us – _**

**_although, I'm sure those dreamy chocolate eyes are hard as coal right now._**

**_I have to run and take care of these boys you're sending down here._**

**_I'm going to be looking for your sign. You've got to give me a sign!_**

**_Come back to me, girl!_**

She closed the card and held it briefly against her chest before tucking it back under her pillow. She jumped into a fresh uniform, laced her boots halfway, and raced out the door.

Stumbling to a sudden halt, she took in the 'standing room only' crowd at the hospital. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed a clipboard with blank chart forms and leapt onto the nearest bus to begin triage.

#########

Buoyed by rumors that the allied forces may retreat from Hill 255, Dixie and Trent worked into their fourth night in hell. The fighting was still furious and the casualties continued to pour into the aid station. Their compassion for the wounded never wavered. Both wetted dry, cracked lips; held weak, shaky hands; listened to those who could and needed to relate horrific stories. And they both hoped their replacements would arrive on the next bus or ambulance.

A hellish barrage unleashed furiously on Hill 255 at some ugly hour of the night. Dixie and Trent huddled under a table once again as their tent all but disintegrated around them. An extremely close explosion threw them to the ground, collapsing half of their tent over the empty cots.

Nearly deafened by the power of a blast that close, Dixie felt, rather than heard, Trent leaving their meager shelter. She grabbed his arm. "Don't." It was all her shaky voice could get out.

The combination of fear, despair, anger and concern that Trent read in Dixie's eyes was enough to make him forget about trying to repair the tent. He held on to her protectively, hoping sheer will would be enough to deflect any bombs that may stray their way.

As they huddled against hell's fury, Dixie thought how strangely time flowed in living nightmares. At times, it crawled achingly slow, seeming to enjoy protracting the misery. Other times, it flashed by in a fast-forward blur that made her head spin – too many, mostly horrible, things happening at once to register it all. This nightmare had moments of both and showed no signs of stopping.

#########

Sally burst through her dorm door. Jumping on her bed, she plucked the card and pen from under her pillow. Calming her excitement for a moment, she added to her note for Dixie's return.

_**I saw your sign, girl! I did a happy dance right then and there.**_

_**The young man bearing your bow-tied stitch on his thigh is doing well,**_

_**thought you'd like to know – kept his leg.**_

_**He said you were like an angel to him – told him that was just for him, I know better.**_

_**I hope you & Trent are doing okay up there. The stories these guys tell chill my soul.**_

_**We are going to celebrate for a week when you get back – so hurry up!**_

_**You're constantly in my thoughts.**_

_**Get back here, girl!**_

She hugged the card, wishing it were her friend instead. Her heart squeezed painfully as she looked over to Dixie's empty cot. Having her best friend in danger and unable to do anything about it hurt physically.

#########

A truck pulled up outside their crippled tent. Trent motioned for Dixie to stay put. "I'll see what they have," he said and ran, crouching low, to talk to the driver. Dixie watched, ready to sprint out to help with triage or unload supplies.

Trent ran back to her, a shocked expression on his face. "Get on the truck," he said, pulling her out from under the table. "It's a full retreat. Go!"

"Oh, God," whispered Dixie. She ran.

Two pairs of strong hands pulled her up into the back of the deuce-and-a-half truck. She turned to help Trent, but he wasn't there. With a pang of panic, she leaned out to look for him. Relief flooded through her when he appeared with both their bags in tow. She jumped back, collected their bags he'd tossed in, and settled on the bench seat running along the side of the truck. The strong hands pulled Trent in and he slid in beside her. The truck lurched forward immediately.

Joyous relief washed over her as she watched the remnants of Aid Station 8 disappear from view.

Through the opening in the back of the canvas covered truck bed, Dixie saw the red line of dawn blazing on the horizon. It felt like the sky was bleeding from the horrors of the past few days. She closed her eyes to the sight. It hadn't been that long ago that she would have seen the red dawn as rosy and pleasant. She hoped to have that peace of mind again. Soon.

She opened her eyes again at the sound of a cough from one of the soldiers riding with them. She studied a couple of them and immediately recognized the 'thousand yard stare' on the young faces. She wondered if they saw the same from her. She was sure she'd had it a few times. A shoulder patch caught her eye as the light from outside began to strengthen. The glint of red made her heart jump, thinking the young man was injured. But, it was the patch for the 7th Infantry Division – the boys from Fort Ord. He smiled at her and a cold chill ran through to her bones.

"I rode up to the aid station with you guys, didn't I?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," a gruff sergeant answered. He put out his cigarette and held his hand out to her, then Trent. "I want to thank you two for handling so many of my men."

"That's what we're there for," Trent answered.

The sergeant sat back down on the bench across from her and Trent, with the six other soldiers. Dixie's breath caught in her throat.

She looked through the back window of the cab, looking for the fresh-faced corporal that drove her the last time. He wasn't in the cab and he wasn't back here. Sadness gripped her heart. "The others," she said. "You're all that's left?" She remembered there were around thirty men in the truck that brought her up here.

The seven shifted around on the bench. "Yeah," answered the sergeant. "It was crazy up there."

She thought about saying how sorry she was, but it rang so hollow in her thoughts she couldn't voice it. The quiet said it all.

She started when Trent took her hand in his, squeezed it tightly. "We made it," he whispered.

While not yet melted chocolate, his eyes had softened from the diamond-hard coal of earlier. She envied his ability to shed the stress, anxiety, horrors so quickly. Or give the illusion he did. She didn't think those eyes could lie, though. She slumped against him, resting her head on his shoulder. She was so tired.

He kept her hand.

#########

Tears streamed down Sally's face as she packed her belongings into the travel trunk. She couldn't believe they had her, four other nurses and five doctors transferring back to the 4th in Pusan. She'd fought the order with her soul, but the Army had spoken. Talks of a truce were humming and the Army was shuffling around, preparing for withdrawal. That made her heart sing. Leaving _now_ made her heart ache. She couldn't think of leaving without seeing Dixie, not after all that had happened. She didn't really _know_ that Dixie was okay. It _felt_ like she was, but Sally wanted to _know_.

A knock at the door forced Sally to dry her eyes, face. "It's open," she called.

Two stud soldiers stood in the open doorway. "Transportation, ma'am."

She pointed to the trunk by her cot. "That's it."

They lifted the trunk with ease and walked through the door. "Headed out in fifteen, ma'am," the trailing stud said over his shoulder.

"I'll be there."

She clicked the door closed, needing privacy. She dug in her travel bag for Dixie's card and her pen. She sat on Dixie's cot, let out a shuddering sigh, and wrote another entry to the note.

_**Dearest Dixie –**_

_**My heart is breaking writing this.**_

_**Ten of us have been recalled to the 4th.**_

_**I'm leaving in a few minutes.**_

_**The Army is preparing for the truce, it seems, so maybe this is a good thing.**_

_**It doesn't feel good though. Not now. I miss you so much already.**_

_**Not being here for your return is unthinkable.**_

_**I'll do everything I can to contact you.**_

_**I never would have survived here if you hadn't come.**_

_**You helped me so much, sister.**_

_**Take care of yourself!**_

_**Love you always – Sally**_

She slid the card in its cream colored envelope. Wiping a tear away, she used that to seal the tip of the flap closed. She wrote a fanciful 'Dixie' on the back and slipped the envelope under Dixie's pillow.

Taking a deep breath, she shouldered her travel bag and exited their room. The click of the door latch stabbed into her heart. She turned and ran down the hall, out into the hot, sticky afternoon. Settling in a seat on the bus, she stared blankly ahead. A thousand yards ahead.

#########

"Hey," Trent called over Dixie's low snore. Waking just moments before, he recognized they'd arrived at 10th Station.

Dixie jerked awake, eyes wide in a second.

"Sorry," Trent calmed her. "We're home."

She looked out the back as the soldiers disembarked. She rolled her eyes. "Doesn't look like California to me."

"Got me there," he chuckled. "Our home away from home, then." He stood, stretching sore, aching muscles. "Either way, I'm glad to see it."

She enjoyed his laugh. It had been a while since there was an opportunity to joke and laugh. "I'll give you that," she agreed. "It's a lovely sight."

They checked in at the hospital duty station. Carla leapt from behind the desk and gave Trent a big hug. Dixie knew Carla was sweet on him, confirmed when all she received was an icy stare. She'd assure her later that they were too busy surviving hell on earth to be having a fling up at the aid station together. Trent did give her a warm embrace and a peck on the cheek before they went their separate ways – girls dorm to the right, guys to the left.

Trent Wells was a nice enough guy, Dixie thought as she trudged down the hall to her room. He was a great doctor. Not much of a soldier. She thought of him more like a brother than a lover. Maybe with enough time that could change. But it worked for now. She valued their friendship greatly and wouldn't want to complicate it or do anything to destroy it.

She hoped Sally was in, but doubted she would be as busy as it was at the hospital. Looked to be an 'all hands' day. Well, she and Trent were off the duty roster for forty-eight hours. She felt like sleeping for at least forty of them. The cat nap on the truck was anything but restive.

She pushed their room door open and wasn't really surprised to find no Sally. She tucked her bag under her cot. A shower was the first order of business. A candle lit bubble bath would be perfect, but she'd settle for the institutional gang shower down the hall. She stripped off her reeking uniform and pulled on her robe. Hooking her bath basket on her arm, she set out to feel human again.

#########

Dixie jerked awake, her belly churning with fear. It was dark. She squinted at the clock, 0327. She had dropped off like a rock. She looked across the room, still no Sally. She should've checked the duty roster to see what Sally's hours were, if they were sticking to the roster. She sat up and a blanket tangled her legs. Sally, she thought. She must've come in, found me zonked out, covered my legs, and snuck out again to let me sleep.

The churning in her stomach morphed from nightmare fear to real hunger. She got up, fumbled along the wall to find the light switch, turned it. She blinked in the brightness. A plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of juice sat on the little table. A note on the plate said, 'Welcome back, The Dorm Girls'. Aw, Dixie thought, all the girls here were good friends to have.

With her hunger gone, the tiredness returned. It would take a few naps before she'd feel rested again. Although none of her previous aid station trips could hold a candle to this past one, it always took a while to get back on schedule after them. She'd nap until the sun came up and then hunt down her roommate.

After turning off the light, she settled back down on her cot, pulled the blanket over her legs, and snuggled into her pillow. As she did, her hand slid across the edge of the card hiding under her pillow. She shot up like an arrow, knowing immediately what she had felt. Sally's card! She knew her brain was fried – she'd forgotten all about the card.

She made herself comfortable sitting on her cot, the light on again. She ran her finger over her name on the back, all swirly and pretty. She slid her finger under the flap and popped it open, getting a tiny, stinging paper cut with the motion. She stuck her finger in her mouth to relieve the sting. She laughed. Almost five days in a raging war zone and she bleeds opening an envelope.

Satisfied that she wouldn't bleed to death, she carefully extracted the card. She ran her fingers across the slightly raised portion of the picture on the front. It was such a fancy card. Sally was so good at picking just the right card. It showed a bright, sunny sky shining on a stone bridge, pressed in relief on the paper. Pretty pastel flowers and blooming shrubs surrounded the sparkling creek flowing under the bridge. The half of the bridge by the spine of the card was dark, in shadow. The other half was bright as a spring day in paradise. She ran her fingers over the bumpy stone bridge again. It was so easy to imagine herself on that bridge, walking from the shadows into the warm sun. It was, of course, perfect.

She flipped the card open to read the inscription. '_The darkest night is often the bridge to the brightest tomorrow_'. Dixie turned back to the front of the card. She couldn't believe how perfect this card was. It was downright eerie. She clearly saw 'the darkest night' as the nightmare from hell she had just survived and the 'brightest tomorrow' could be the upcoming truce and trip back home to start her real nursing career – in a normal, sane California hospital.

She took a deep calming breath and opened the card for the most important part – Sally's scribbled message. The woman only used cursive to sign her name. That was Sally. Dixie's throat constricted when she read the first part of Sally's message. She felt the concern her friend had for her, the fear. She couldn't wait to talk to her about it. She smiled at her second note. An angel, huh? Very unlikely. She wanted to party for a week, too. Her throat closed off when she read the third note. She gasped. No! Her fingers went numb with shock and the card fell onto the blanket.

She looked over at Sally's corner. Sure enough, the bookcase was bare and there was nothing under her cot but a few dust balls. How had she missed that all Sally's stuff was gone? How could she not _feel_ that Sally wasn't here? It must mean that she was safe up at the 4th. Otherwise, Dixie would _know_. She was sure of that. A tear tumbled down her cheek. She wiped it away, took control. She wouldn't lose it now, not after all she'd been through. She would do what she had to to reach Sally at the 4th. They would cry and laugh together and they would get on with their lives.

She picked up the card and ran her fingers across the bumpy stones, again. Her heavy heart told her she was still on the shadowy side of the bridge.

#########

Dixie sat, sweltering in the hot August sun that beat down on the C-54 Skymaster cargo plane on the Pusan tarmac. About two weeks ago the armistice was signed. She was going home. When she reached San Diego Naval Station, she would be honorably resigning her commission.

She sat back when the plane roared down the runway, lifting. Exhaling slowly, she kept her tears in check. She was no longer in Korea. The war was over. She had seen the map of the new North and South Korean countries. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry seeing that Hill 255, outline on the map still looking like a pork chop, was in the demilitarized zone between the two countries – owned by neither side. All that fighting, all those lives – all for nothing.

Reaching into her purse, she pulled out the last card she received from Sally. As a cruel twist of war, she had not been able to reach Sally again. Running her fingers over the raised stones of the bridge, she looked out the window. It was bright and beautiful out there. She was flying into her brighter tomorrows, leaving those dark, dark nights in Korea.

And what about those tomorrows? She'd thought long and hard about that the last couple of weeks. Resigning her commission was the first step. She'd given the Army all she had to give. Next, a leisurely visit with her brother in San Fernando. Her brother was the picture of Americana – housewife, three kids, a dog and a nice suburban home. After that, she would go back to school to upgrade her nursing skills. And, ultimately, get a nursing position at a big hospital. She'd prefer the emergency room – the front lines, so to speak. She could certainly handle that. A job with an edge was still a must.

With a sigh, she put the card back in her purse. She thought of Sally, Trent, even Cole. They were the brightness of Korea. Would her tomorrows have friendships like that? Laughing in the face of fear and terror, skill and bravery under impossible odds – will she find that in a civilian hospital? She smiled. How about soft eyes or lop-sided grins?

Relaxed, she leaned back and closed her eyes. She'll just have to jump in and see what those tomorrows bring.


	8. Chapter 8

ckimura challenge:

You come across a pack of matches that sets off a series of uncanny events. Start your story with "My mother always told me not to play with fire. But she never met John Gage or Chet Kelly" End it with "And that's how I ended up in the middle of nowhere—naked."

**Mike's Tale**

Icabu

"My mother always told me not to play with fire. But she never met John Gage or Chet Kelly." Mike Stoker shifted uncomfortably in the hospital bed. "I'm telling you, Roy, I'll never go camping with those two ever again."

Roy DeSoto nodded, carefully keeping a knowing grin off his face. "You're lucky it's mostly first degree burns."

"Some second," the engineer griped. "Don't forget the six stitches, too." Mike carefully probed the bandage covering the wound on his forehead.

With time to kill while his wife hosted a Tupperware party, Roy settled into the plastic chair next to Mike's bed. "I heard Johnny and Chet explain how you did all this, but it seemed a bit one-sided."

"How _I_ did all this?" Mike's eyes narrowed. "It certainly wasn't me!" Mike's hand splayed across his chest in a very Gage-esque manner. "I'm just the innocent victim here."

"You went with them," Roy countered.

Sighing, Mike leaned back, sinking into the bed. "You're right."

Waving his hand, indicating the various visible bandages Mike sported, Roy asked, "So how did this happen?" Knowing what he'd just volunteered for, Roy crossed his legs and prepared his mind for just about anything.

"Well," Mike began, "since you asked …"

#########

"Sure is remote up here," Mike said, exiting Johnny's Land Rover. He stretched the cramps out of his legs from the long, winding trip.

"That's the best part," Johnny said. He pulled in lungsful of fresh mountain air, thumping his chest. "Nothing better."

Looking out at the scenic view of the valley below and other hills and peaks in the distance, Mike had to agree that it was striking. "You come up here often?"

"Much as I can," Johnny answered. "Probably once a month." He pulled equipment out of the back of his truck: chairs, a crate full of stuff.

"Hey, there's a trail over here," Chet called, scuffing up dust as he jogged back to the truck. "Says it goes to Lookout Bluff. Sounds cool."

"That's a three hour hike up, two back," cautioned Johnny.

"Feels like I've been sitting that long," Mike said, stretching his legs again. "I'm game for the hike."

Luckily, the views were amazing enough to keep Mike's mind off the sweat soaking through his shirt. He wished he'd changed into shorts before starting this vertical climb. The cramps from sitting so long were now replaced with cramps from exertion. Watching the brush closely for snakes, Mike frowned at litter sitting in a bush by the trail. With niceness ingrained into his DNA, Mike bent to pick it up, yelping when the rapier thorns on the bush stabbed into his arm. Blood spots stung as sweat trickled over them. At least the litter turned out to be a pack of matches, something that could be useful for camping. Mike tucked them into his damp pocket and trudged upward.

Stopping at the sign that encouragingly proclaimed they'd reached the half-way point, the three firemen chugged water from the canteen that Johnny carried. Mike smiled inwardly that Chet looked wholly miserable – drenched with sweat, his arms scratched from the thorny bushes that he'd used to pull himself up some of the steeper grades. Johnny, on the other hand, looked like he was out for a leisurely Sunday stroll in the park. Mike felt somewhere between the two extremes, uncomfortably closer to Chet's condition than he'd like to admit.

Nearing the promised Lookout Bluff, the trio had to make room for two descending hikers on a narrow strip of trail.

"Hey, man," one of the hikers called, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Anyone got a light?"

Mike dug into his pocket and pulled out the book of matches. On the third try, the match flared. Both men stuck their cigs into the small flame, puffing plumes.

"Thanks, man."

Mike nodded and the two groups continued in opposite directions.

The view from Lookout Bluff was spectacular. Mike stood on the rock outcropping, cautiously back from the sheer edge. Chet lay spread-eagle on the large rock. Johnny leaned against a granite spire, staring out into the distance. Mike was sure Johnny saw and understood much more than he did of this natural world. He felt a brief pang of jealousy, but a calf cramp pushed that away. He stretched the painful muscle until it reluctantly relaxed again. He thought he heard Chet snoring.

They finished off the canteen and some trail mix that Johnny had prepared. It wasn't too bad, Mike thought, for bran and twigs. Mike sat cross-legged, trying to harmonize with the surrounding nature. He heard the piercing call of what he thought was a large bird of prey. The constant breeze had dried his sweat, leaving a gritty, grimy layer behind. He doubted Johnny had a shower in the back of his truck.

The trip down produced more sweat than up had – mostly from stark terror as they skittered on the steep, loose trail. Mike's arms collected more thorn punctures. The backside of Chet's pants was nearly worn through. Collecting their wits at the half-way point, a familiar odor tickled Mike's senses.

"Smoke," Mike announced.

"I smell it," agreed Johnny.

"Me, too," Chet concurred.

Carefully, the firemen descended. The smoke became visible as they rounded a bend. Just off the trail a small grass and brush fire smoldered. The trio quickly surrounded the burn patch, stomping and kicking dirt to extinguish the flames. Scouring for hot spots, Mike found a pair of cigarette butts.

"Damn it," he spat. "I knew those two were idiots."

Johnny frowned at the butts. Both he and Mike jumped back when Chet stepped up and peed on the offending ignition devices.

"What the hell …" Johnny exclaimed, averting his gaze.

"Hey, just putting it to good use," said Chet, chuckling.

Johnny and Mike looked at each other and then up and down the trail. Finally, they shrugged and picked out a spot of burnt earth and hosed it down themselves.

Back at camp, Mike found a trickle of water squeezed out of some rocks and washed off his most offensive sweat caked areas. Johnny seemed to have the camp site setup in hand and Chet was patrolling for firewood. With the sun on the other side of the mountain, the deep shadows had cooled the temperature significantly – thankfully. Mike collected firewood from the area around the seep and returned to camp.

"I see you found my water hole," said Johnny.

"That's a generous description." Mike dropped his armload of wood near the large stone fire ring Johnny had constructed. He noted that only dusty dirt surrounded the stone ring for several feet. Their training was well represented.

"I'm going to freshen up," Johnny said, "you can get the fire started."

Mike nodded and headed over to the edge of the camp to collect some dried grass and twigs. It didn't take long before he had a nice fire snapping in the ring. Chet had returned with less wood than Mike had brought and was already rummaging in the back of Johnny's truck for food. Mike wandered through the sparse woods, collecting what he thought would burn. When he returned, Chet was gone and Johnny was setting up a camp stove on a large stump of wood.

"What'd you do with Chet?" Mike asked.

"Sent him to wash up for dinner," Johnny answered as he busied himself with the food.

"Good deal. Need a hand with anything?" offered Mike.

"No, I got it. I thought I had a can of beans, but I must have forgotten to bring it."

Mike settled into a chair far enough from the fire to be comfortable. He heard a brief hissing noise an instant before the explosion knocked him over backwards.

"Mike!" Johnny rushed over to where Mike lay in the dirt, surprised to see a sizeable cut on his left forehead, bleeding steadily. "Hold still, Mike." Johnny pressed the dish towel he'd slung over his shoulder to Mike's forehead.

"I found your beans," Mike grumbled, wiping a few baked beans from his face.

"Oh, shit," Chet exclaimed, running up to his friends. "I forgot about the beans."

"What the hell, Chet?" Johnny pierced Chet with an icy gaze.

"I was hungry after all that hiking and putting out the fire and everything …" Chet wound down when he saw the bloody cloth Johnny was holding against Mike's head. "What happened to him?"

Johnny forcefully held Mike down, at least until the bleeding stopped. "You apparently didn't vent the can you stuck in the fire. It shot out like a rocket into Mike's head."

"Oh," Chet said meekly. "Sorry, man."

"Help me get him in the chair, Chet. I'll get him bandaged up."

Mike brushed Chet's hands away and held the towel himself while Johnny went to get his first aid kit.

"I didn't think I'd be gone that long. I was gonna share," Chet apologized.

Mike sighed. He knew Chet didn't do it on purpose. "It's all right, Chet. I'm fine."

"That's an awful lot of blood …" Chet swallowed the rest when Mike glared at him. He sat in another chair, staring at the fire, his stomach rumbling audibly.

"It'll need stitches," Johnny said, finishing his bandaging. "We'll head out early and get you to Rampart. Do you have a headache?"

Mike slumped in his chair, glaring at Chet. "Working on one."

"I have aspirin if you want it. Let me know if you feel dizzy or anything."

Hating Johnny's paramedic tone, Mike grumbled, "I'm fine."

They ate hotdogs and potato chips and after a few beers were handed around, laughter and chatting filled the evening. Johnny even played a couple of songs on his guitar that didn't sound too bad. Close to midnight, Mike decided to crawl into his sleeping bag. With no hint of rain forecasted, they were sleeping alfresco. Johnny banked the fire with the big log he'd used with his stove and they all retired.

The gunshot sound had all three firemen out of their bags. Their pounding heartbeats settled when they saw that the log in the fire had caused the sound. It apparently still had sap inside that had reached the boiling point and the resulting steam blew it apart. They gathered up a few stray hot coals and settled in again. Apologizing, Johnny re-banked the fire.

Shortly after dozing off again, Mike woke to smoke and heat. Yelling, he slapped at the flames licking up from his sleeping bag. He'd missed some of the scattered hot coals that were now under his bag. With the zipper stuck, Mike wriggled to free himself. He felt hands pulling on him and the bag slipped away. He rolled in the dirt to put out his smoldering clothes. Standing, he quickly shed his clothing, staring at the smoking pile. He shivered in the chill night air.

#########

Mike looked over at Roy, impressed that he wasn't asleep after Mike's tale. "And that is how I ended up in the middle of nowhere – naked."


End file.
